


at least it can't get any worse

by PenelopeJadewing



Series: fictober 2018 [16]
Category: Naruto, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, First Meetings, Fugitives, Gen, Kisame is a babysitter now, Post-Massacre, Safehouses, Young Itachi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-09 22:57:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16458632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenelopeJadewing/pseuds/PenelopeJadewing
Summary: Hoshigaki Kisame's getting paid a butt-load of money for this contract, but it's the farthest thing from his usual MO. He's a hitman, a mercenary. People hire him to kill people. Simple as that. He's good at that. What's he not good at?Kids. He's not good at kids. Especially kids-turned-murderers by the government who very probably have mental health issues and still have to make it through high school...





	at least it can't get any worse

Out of the entire population of the known world—or maybe even the unknown—Hoshigaki Kisame is the very last person anyone should be asking to take care of a  _child_.

At least, that’s his opinion. He dislikes kids. Not ‘hate,’ mind you. He doesn’t hate them. Dislikes them. For many reasons. And none of those reasons are why he thinks most would want to keep children as far from him as possible. Sure, they’re needy, emotional, selfish, nosy, stupid and naive, but that has virtually nothing on the fact that he’s _the Blue Beast_. The terror of 14 prefectures, known by his work in multiple countries, valued at several millions in bounties, with a flawless hit record and a taste for prey that he can play with first. 

He’s worked very hard for this reputation, so why the h*** did Shimura Danzo contact  _him_  for this job? It makes absolutely no sense.

Not that he can say no, exactly, not with the pay grade he’s offering, but still… He’s barely even been given anything to work with; something about the National Hero Commission trying to keep the lowest of profiles… And he guesses that, as a fugitive of the law himself, he can understand this.

It’s even mildly amusing that the enforcers of the law are now trying to dodge it. Ah, espionage. If he wasn’t in the hired gun business, that’s probably where he’d be. Much more fun than boring old criminal justice.

His knee is just starting to bounce again when he, at long last, hears the train. It’s close now. Took it long enough; it’s twenty minutes late. And thanks to the delay, the platform is filling up more than he’s really comfortable with. Not that it’s a terribly dangerous place for him to be… Laamu is a pretty remote little town. It’s more of a waystation for trains than anything else. Probably why Shimura picked it as the rendezvous point. The likelihood of anybody recognizing him here is fairly low, all things considered… Still. He wore long sleeves and jeans without holes for today. His complexion is rather… distinct.

The train pulls in with the ease of a greased pump, whipping air and fallen leaves off the tracks into the faces of anyone stupid enough to stand too close to the edge. Kisame remains seated where he is, on one of the benches against the wall, as far from the edge of the platform as he can get. He takes his work seriously; no unnecessary risks. He watches the windows on each car get steadily slower until they at last come to a stop, with Car 7 stopping directly in front of him, just as planned.

It’s nice when things go according to plan.

He pulls his phone from the pocket of his hooded jacket and pulls up the specified informant’s photo again. He’s a bit of a plain-looking guy… brown hair, round eyes. Should be easy enough to spot.

Movies always portray secret agents running around in suits all the time. Psh. How ridiculous. No, Kisame will be looking for average street clothes, something that blends into everybody else. The key will be the hair. And the kid.

Now he waits for them to find him.

Only a few people get off at this stop, but they disappear immediately into the crowd waiting to board. Kisame sweeps his gaze over them all, searching for heads fighting the flow. It’s eight in the morning, and anybody with anywhere to be is on their way out. And since nobody in this dinky little town has gone anywhere yet, it’s understandable that nobody’s on their way back yet.

Ah. There they are.

The informant dude is dressed in an outdated band tee and denim jacket (like, actual denim), darker jeans, and Nikes. A weighty backpack is slung over one shoulder, and he lugs a single, small suitcase behind him. Trailing just behind that, a tiny kid dressed in black follows with his head down and hood up, hands stuffed away in his pockets. Black shoes, black jeans, black hoodie, and the sneaking wisps of black hair peeking out from under the black shadows under the hood.

Great. An emo punk.

Kisame doesn’t stand. Not yet. Only waits.

The informant, who matches the photo more the closer he gets, doesn’t look straight at him, and makes sure to take a wandering beeline across the platform before at last, he arrives close to the bench on which Kisame sits, and pauses to pull out his phone. To anyone else, he looks like he’s simply checking messages or perhaps looking up directions. The kid lingers behind him, still not raising his head. He’s probably been told to keep it down until they’re at the appropriate location—in this case, the safehouse thirty minutes outside of town.

Then the informant meets Kisame’s gaze, jerks his head in gesture, and then heads off toward the exit. The kid follows dutifully. Kisame waits exactly twelve seconds, gets up, stretches, and then follows.

Once in the parking lot, the informant wordlessly allows Kisame to overtake them so he can lead them to his Jeep, which is parked a fair distance from the main entrance. He hops in the front seat and starts her up as the informant and the kid climb into the passenger and back seats respectively. Kisame doesn’t bother waiting to hear the click of seatbelts before he’s pulling out and making for the highway.

The little town of Laamu takes no less than five minutes to cross, with zero traffic, zero lights, and only one stop sign at a major intersection. Once the quaint neighborhood streets fall behind them, the open countryside swallows them up in little woods and rice paddies.

Then and only then does the informant speak.

“You know where you’re headed?” he asks, in a voice that’s softer than Kisame expected it would be. Then again, it matches those wide, almost-innocent eyes.

Kisame snorts. “Never been to the area… I took a little drive around before heading to the station. Scoped things out.”

“It’s a nice place,” the informant hums, gazing out the window. “Quiet, unassuming… Nobody gives you any trouble in places like these.”

“Unless your dog gets into your neighbor’s flowers, nope, not at all.” Kisame shifts his gaze from the road briefly to shoot the man a wary glance. He understands the concept of protocol… but he can cut the crap now. No need for double entendres; it’s not like his car is bugged or anything.

He checks. Every day.

“You gonna debrief me or what?” Kisame just goes for it. No use beating around the bush.

The informant sighs a little. “…Yes. I brought a file for you to look over when we get to the safehouse.”

“We have half an hour; anything you can’t just tell me on the way?”

The informant is somewhat hesitant—why, Kisame can’t begin to guess. They’re hiring him for this job, they’d better be good and prepared to give him every detail he asks for. He doesn’t go into jobs half blind. It increases risk, it’s bad for business and frankly, it’s just plain stupid.

Thankfully, the informant does start talking, sparingly. He tells Kisame about a group of vigilante hackers called Heaven’s Eye, which had apparently been a thorn in poor old Shimura Danzo’s side for quite some time, breaking into secure networks, stealing compromising information about Pro-Heroes and releasing it to the public.

Apparently, they got their hands on some pretty shady stuff, including operations of the National Hero Commission itself, matters of national security, and nobody knows what else. The informant says the commission fears for more sensitive information was accessed—like nuclear launch codes and the like.

Between this information and the occasional pause to give Kisame passenger-side directions, it takes the informant the whole trip to get to this point. They turn off the main roads and cross the last stretch of minimum maintenance, which doubles as the cabin’s driveway, until said cabin comes into view. It’s an old, single-story thing with missing shingles and weathered siding, a sagging porch. Small, unassuming… just like Laamu. A perfect hideaway.

As Kisame’s pulling up to the front and shutting off the engine, the informant lowers his voice to finish the backstory.

“I’m not authorized to go into details, but a third party hired someone to put the group’s leader and several officers down for good.” The informant keeps his gaze steady, but Kisame doesn’t miss the twitch of his eyes—like he starts to glance at the rearview mirror and stops himself a split-second in.

Kisame glances back. Frowns. Looks at the informant. “The kid?”

The informant just gets out of the car in response. Kisame looks back again, but the child is following suit of his guardian—or at least, his guardian until the day’s over.

This certainly wasn’t what Kisame expected.

After the other two, he gets out, the Jeep leaping once rid of his bulk, making the kid at the back of the car suck in a breath in surprise as the informant fishes his suitcase out of the trunk. Kisame snickers.

“I take it the rest I have to—” he starts to say as he rounds to the back, ready to receive the briefing file at long last.

He’s  _not_  ready for the kid to lower himself into a bow, to  _him_ , and speak in a level, eloquent voice that’s not at all the punkish grumble he imagined it would be.

“I’m sorry for my rudeness,” he says, small voice bouncing off the ground on its way to Kisame’s ears. “I was told not to draw attention until we reached our destination, so I refrained from introducing myself. My name is Uchiha Itachi. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

‘Rudeness’? ‘It’s a pleasure’? Kisame stares, flabbergasted. “What the h***, kid… Did they tell you who I am?”

It’s halfway to rhetorical; only halfway. Given this strange cordiality, Kisame has his doubts. Can he even remember the last time somebody claimed it was a  _pleasure_  to meet him? Somebody he didn’t proceed to kill in their sleep shortly after?

“Indeed,” the child— _child??_ —replies calmly, rising to fix Kisame with the biggest black eyes he’s ever seen. The kid looks like a doll. All eyelashes and pale round cheeks. “I’m told you’re a very capable mercenary.”

Kisame tears his attention away from the oddity before him just to glare at the informant (who, to his credit, seems unfazed). “Oh, so  _he_  gets all the info ahead of time.”

The informant just shrugs and starts rummaging around in his backpack. Before Kisame can say anything further, he speaks without looking up. “Uchiha-kun, why don’t you take your bag inside?”

It’s a patronizing dismissal, pitched in stark contrast to the maturity that had just spewed forth from this tiny pre-teen’s mouth—and he really is tiny. Uchiha Itachi barely surpasses Kisame’s waist.

Despite this treatment, Itachi nods to the informant and gathers up his suitcase. “Yes, sir,” he says, before marching off to do as he’s told.

Kisame watches him go, puzzling over how on earth such a polite little hellion can exist on this planet. Kids are supposed to be terrors… or so he’s gleaned from his experience.

“Is there something wrong with him?” he blurts, the first explanation to come to the forefront of his mind. In hindsight, it’s probably highly unfair and rude of him to assume this, but he’s never claimed to be an upstanding guy. Which is precisely why he’s confused.

The informant shoots him a stink eye before he whips a manila folder out of his bag and holds it out for Kisame to take. It’s stuffed full of neatly stacked papers, thickened with several paper clips in their midst. As Kisame receives it and begins leafing through, the informant gives him his answer.

“No. His family is very conservative. He’s been raised well.” The informant sets his backpack beside the Jeep’s rear wheel. “The only thing that could be considered ‘wrong’ with him is—”

“Hold up, hold up.” Kisame pauses in his skim of the first page—a profile of the kid who just went inside. “This kid’s an agent?”

The informant stutters into an exasperated sigh, but shakes his head. “It was an honorary induction, for the purpose of his assignment—of which he only had one.”

“The hit,” Kisame concludes, eyes darting further down the page in search of answers.

“Yes.”

“It says he—S***, he killed _twelve people?_  Daddy included?? D***.” Kisame taps the page appreciatively. “Shimura doesn’t play around.”

“Officially,” the informant says sternly, “neither the commissioners or the NHC have anything to do with the incident. We’d like to keep it that way.”

“Duh, that’s why you’re saddling him on me.” Kisame waves him off, too busy drowning in new intel to really care. Because if this kid is really only thirteen, as his profile claims, and he really just killed twelve people in cold blood on orders from Above, then— “So he’s either a psychopath or I’m gonna have to deal with some post-traumatic s***?”

The informant doesn’t look pleased with this summary, but both of them know he can’t dispute it. He’s not wrong. “We couldn’t exactly take him to see a professional after the mission was complete. But yes, the latter is very likely. We don’t expect you to be his shrink, but we figured you might have some experience dealing with a maiden kill and its fallout.”

Okay, the informant’s not wrong either.

This really is turning into a bit of a pain… Kisame doesn’t do comfort. He doesn’t do… nurturing, reassurance, that sort of crap. He’s no good at it, and has no interest in becoming good at it. It’s not necessary for his line of work, so why should he? But apparently, it’s being demanded of him now…

Granted, there’s no way they can enforce that will happen. If the kid turns into some mentally screwed up mess because his government used him and then dumped him in a wanted man’s lap, that’s not his problem. As long as he gets his money every month, as promised.

“He’s a good kid,” the informant insists, as if Kisame asked or something. “He’s young. He needs some kind of guidance. Stability, until things can settle down. This is far from ideal, we’re well aware, but we don’t have much going for options at this point. There’s not a lot for childcare in the underworld. You were the closest person we could find who’s done jobs for us before, relatively cooperative, mostly mentally sound, and not officially labeled as a Villain in the books.”

“Yeah,” Kisame snorts, “so you repay my good service by creating a child murderer and depositing his scrawny traumatized a** on me. You and I both know I’m not exactly qualified for this. I’m not a babysitter.”

The informant’s dark eyes narrow. “Don’t forget, we’re paying you good money to handle this.”

“How could I forget? That’s all I get outta this arrangement.”

That seems to be the end of that, because the informant rolls his eyes heavenward and scoops up his deposited backpack. He slings it over his shoulder and starts walking toward the driveway. “Read the file. We expect a regular check-in on the third of every month. Wi-fi password’s clipped to the photograph.”

 _Had to get the last word in, eh?_  Kisame heaves a dramatic sigh in accordance with the government’s dramatic antics and just gives the informant a lazy salute. He’ll figure out whatever else he needs to know from the file, he knows that. And what he can’t find there is bound to be within easy reach from the government-issued computer system inside. Shimura Danzo is nothing if not thorough.

Still. Kisame flips to Itachi’s profile again, glancing over the paragraphs of summary info before settling on the photograph of the kid. Instinctively, he looks up to the cabin, only to find that same kid standing on the porch, just outside the door. With his hands clasped in front of him and the morning sun creeping over the surrounding woods and distant mountain peaks… it’s like a shot from a movie.

Kisame groans to himself and snaps the folder shut. “No sweat, Hoshigaki… you’re just stuck alone on a mountain with a ridiculously pretentious teenager who just murdered his father and eleven other people, and you’re being paid a fortune in compensation and hush money to take care of him until he’s old enough to graduate… from the schooling  _you_  have to give him, even though you dropped out of high school, all because everybody in the country would recognize his face now.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, where a headache is beginning to throb. “Right… At least it can’t get any worse.”


End file.
